


dirty laundry

by virusq



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Kissing, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alcohol, Aliases, Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Banter, Business Colleagues with Benefits, Business with Benefits, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Slavery, Let Star Wars say fuck, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Tatooine Bashing (Star Wars), Undercover, Undercover Missions, rogue with a heart of gold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:22:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27905917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virusq/pseuds/virusq
Summary: It started with a distress signal.No one would ever accuse Talon Karrde of being the dashing rogue that would swoop in to stage a daring rescue.However, Talon Karrdewasthe type of opportunist to recognize a potentially lucrative long-term investment. Jabba’s recent string of successes, including a promotion in the Hutt Cartel and a takeover in Black Sun territories, marked an upward trend in the sort of rapid-expansion empire-building that left a lot of room for disgruntled employees. Informants were valuable.Informants that owed you a favor --well.
Relationships: Talon Karrde/Lando Calrissian
Comments: 13
Kudos: 8
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs 2020





	1. Dirty Laundry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elsajeni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/gifts).



> "Lando Calrissian/Talon Karrde"  
> "...Like they haven't"  
> \- Elsajeni, 2020 Star Wars Rarepairs Participant, Person of Exquisite Taste

It started with a distress signal.

If it weren’t for some questionable signal modifications added to the _Ante Eater’s_ scanners, Talon Karrde would have completely missed the tip. Business on Ryloth had been a comfortable level of predictable until the dash indicator lit up; a small yellow symbol in some thieves’ cant he specifically paid slicers like Ghent to stay abreast of.

Someone was in desperate need of assistance on Tatooine.

He ignored it, at first. No one would ever accuse Talon Karrde of being the dashing rogue that would swoop in to stage a daring rescue. 

No, sorry -- someone was always in desperate need of assistance on Tatooine. It was Tatooine, after all. A dreadful little mono-climate planet on the far edge of the Corellian Run; too close to Hutt Cartel territory and too far from a consensus on conscionable export goods to be worth any effort. What was Tatooine’s GDP anyway? Salvage? Bounty hunters?

However, Talon Karrde was the type of opportunist to recognize a potentially lucrative long-term investment. Jabba’s recent string of successes, including a promotion in the Hutt Cartel and a takeover in Black Sun territories, marked an upward trend in the sort of rapid-expansion empire-building that left a lot of room for disgruntled employees. Informants were valuable.

Informants that owed you a favor -- well.

"I understand how signals work," Karrde patiently corrected the slicer on the other end of the galaxy. "I need to know how to read the message without compromising the security of the transmission."

The young man on the holoprojection crossed his arms. "Are you sure? ‘Cause, that’s exactly how decryption works. You break the encryption to read a message. Decryption is like, the definition of an insecure message. It’s in readable form."

Karrde sighed. Ghent was a brilliant young man but his youth predisposed him to the belief that everyone older than him was completely technologically challenged. “Ghent. The cipher, please.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll send you the keys.” Ghent uncrossed his arms in surrender, his fingers weaving a flurry of communications off-camera. “I need to make a new one anyway. Hey, where are you? Your feed is absolutely lubed." 

There were times when Ghent’s choice vernacular reminded Karrde of how dreadfully old he had become and justifying himself to a teenage subordinate didn’t lessen the sting. Being stranded outside of Hutt space, chasing a mysterious signal, with poor holonet connectivity was a triple debt. He knew it. Ghent knew it. But he had a hunch. The timing was too good.

"I'm eight hours outside of Ryloth. I'm going to investigate this signal."

"Want me to tell Tapper?"

"No," Karrde forced himself to pause before answering a little too quickly. Word of an ill-advised layover to his more seasoned crew or business partner would cause a taxing amount of questions. "I’ll be back in time for --"

The yellow block of text updated to reflect the newly decrypted distress signal. The text flickered and shifted, collating potentially related information retrieved from open news feeds. As Karrde read the text, his attention shifted from the conversation entirely.

One of Jabba’s personal bodyguards was requesting immediate and discreet passage out of the system for himself and one dancer. 

"Boss? You cut out."

"If I'm not back for the Palak run, tell Chin."

"Suit yourself."

* * *

Lady Luck was a fickle woman.

If someone had asked Lando Calrissian -- Baron Administrator of Cloud City, CEO of Bespin Mining Corporation, and two-time winner of the Songsteel Sylop -- where he imagined himself in a year, rubbing elbows with the criminal underbelly of Mos Espa would have ranked somewhere well below ‘Coruscant air-taxi maintenance’ and ‘naval waste management’ -- purely based on how difficult it was to remove stains.

Lando's relationship with Lady Luck was the kind of romance that holodrama writers retired on: their slow-burn flirtations fueled his fire and he chased her across the stars -- even if she occasionally called the wrong name in throws of passion. 

This was how he rationalized the Imperial invasion of Bespin. The whole ordeal was a test of his mettle: a challenge of his skill as a savvy businessman. 

Han Solo’s sudden unexpected appearance at Cloud City, the same day as a surprise inspection from Darth Vader, was really all Han’s fault. Han had somehow earned the scorn of Lady Luck by being, well, Han. 

It was all Han’s fault: Everything from the shortage of Chandrillan game hens at Darth Vader’s dinner to the heated stare of tearful disappointment that Leia Organa levied against his heart, to the swift shipment to Tatooine via Bounty Express.

Lando’s blessedly quick and uneventful integration into Jabba’s crew on Mos Espa, though? That was the work of Lady Luck. The ebb and flow of Her affections would always work in his favor. 

Lando wasn’t a fool: he knew he was too well known in Jabba’s court to waltz in unprepared. His plan to balance the scales with Han was to lie low and glean intel about Jabba’s dealings. If he or Leia could infiltrate the Palace undetected, they could rescue Han. It wouldn’t be his first heist and most certainly wouldn’t be his last.

The handful of lowlifes he’d fallen in with were mostly honest businesspersons: two local vendors, a Rodian jazz artist, and a muscular Trandoshan woman that boasted merc work. He didn’t need to ask where they worked: Mos Espa’s proximity to Jabba’s Palace was a guarantee that every pocket was lined by the Cartel’s credits. 

The crew was easy to read and spilling with overconfidence and open purses. One week in the city and the local speeder gang had already invited him to comment and promote events. At three weeks, the regulars at the Krayt and Beryl were schooling him on sabacc tells. That evening, they told him stories and kept his glass full.

Lando had thrown in with worse lots in the past. This lot kept him close to Jabba’s Palace, well-informed, and conveniently occupied. They insisted on the weirdest quirk though: they all referred to him as ‘Tamtel Skreej’. He had considered correcting them, at first, but they didn’t believe him. 

Lady Luck worked in mysterious ways.

* * *

After two cups of caf, a few hours of sun-bleached patience, and some delicate social engineering, Talon Karrde was convinced the distress signal was absolutely legitimate. 

Research confirmed that his new clients were one Tamtel Skreej: human male, middle-aged, athlete and bodyguard, and one Nima’tar: Twi’lek female, young adult, scholar, and dancer. 

The pair had pooled their resources together to buy a non-Cartel signal and non-Cartel passage and, as luck would have it, the frequency they found was in direct competition with their former employer: Jabba Desilijic Tiure. 

Both were owned, tagged, and registered slaves of the Hutt Cartel. Neither of them had any idea how genuinely fucked they’d be if anyone else had intercepted their signal.

Talon Karrde’s stomach turned. 

Neither of them had any idea how genuinely fucked he was for answering their signal.

He dropped a cred-stick next to his untouched lunch and sent coordinates to the pair.

* * *

“Hey Skreej, where’s Mina,” the Trandoshan asked Lando Calrissian from across the sabacc table. 

Lando tossed a chip into the pile and scanned the cantina for any hint of recognition from the other players. The Twi’lek vendor seated to his left tossed in their bet and twitched uncomfortably. They carried their heart on their sleeve, which made for the worst gambler but offered Lando the best kind of context clues.

Lando scratched the back of his neck, swallowing to sell dismissive concern. “Working.”

The warm gaze of the Bothan seated to his right flicked over her cards toward him. “Didn't you two have plans tonight?”

A giggle escaped the Rodian, who pitched his ante to the pot and retreated behind his cards as soon as Lando looked at him.

Lando mused at the thought: somewhere, Tamtel and this Mina person were having a great night. "Change of plans."

The Trandoshan fidgeted with her stack, each chip emitting a soft click as her fingernail passed it; Lando counted them out of habit. "Been too many changes in the plans lately, Skreej."

“She probably got held up in traffic," Lando offered half-heartedly. Ignorance was an easy sell.

“I think she ran off,” the Trandoshan hissed between sharp teeth, her reptilian stare fixed on Lando. "Where's she going, Skreej."

"She'll make it,” the Twi’lek offered. "Tam is here. Mina's coming. No one's running anywhere."

The steady sound of casual banter silenced around the table, each player suddenly burdened with the weight of anxious suspicion. To Lando's surprise, the Twi’lek and the Bothan both knew something about Mina that the Trandoshan expected him to be fully involved with.

Lando eased back into his seat calmly and used the disruption to peak at the reflections of his companions’ cards.

If Mina and the real Tamtel walked through the door, he'd be a dead man. And he had the best hand at the table. Damn it all, he was not going to lose this pot to a fight. 

“Hey now,” he soothed in his soft baritone. “You keep at it and Gunthar’s going to kick us out again. We’re running out of places with nice tables.”

“You know better,” the Rodian pleaded. “Mina has it good at the Palace and Skreej has been here all night.” 

The Trandoshan’s eyes narrowed. Lando could feel her feral judgment weighing his moral fiber. He held his ground. 

Lando smiled. “Your call.”

The Trandoshan relented and called the bet. The Twi’lek breathed a sigh of relief and the Bothan returned her attention to her cards.

Sated, the group settled back into place and continued the round. Barbed comments pitched across the table and Lando’s attention shifted to the bar. 

Their disruption hadn't gone unnoticed. 

A new face sat at the far side of the bar: a middle-aged human whose weathered features weren’t brittle enough to be a local. He hadn’t been there long and barely touched his ale. Their ruckus managed to capture the man’s full attention and, now that Lando had noticed, the man was trying to get his attention. 

Lando squinted for a clearer perspective. There was something so intentionally rugged about the man’s appearance that it felt theatrical. He was either a terrible con man or a rebel operative.

One of Leia's rebel operatives.

Lando swore under his breath and folded.

* * *

Two minutes had passed the agreed hour, then five. At eight minutes, Karrde assumed the worst.

An argument broke out at the card table and his clients’ names were spat as clear as day. The tension in the room confirmed it was time to go.

Karrde locked eyes with the only human male at the table and nodded discreetly toward the back exit. He didn't know where the girl was, but they were out of time and the locals were restless. He'd give him five minutes to follow or call it off.

Karrde stepped past the bar and into the back hall. He pressed his back to the wall and listened for movement. If Tamtel came, they could continue walking out the back. If anyone else followed him, he could go back out the front and vanish.

The dark-skinned human rounded the corner and flashed him a smile. “You, sir, are far too handsome to be drinking alone.”

"You're late." In one swift move, Karrde grabbed the man by the shoulder and pulled him out of the line of sight. He huffed a protest as his back hit the wall. Karrde pressed his hand against the man's chest to keep him stationary, then peeked around the corner. "Where's Nima'tar?"

"Mina?"

Karrde swore. They had earned the attention of two tails. "Your partner!" 

Karrde turned back to scold his client but the words were cut short. His nose brushed across the man's cheek and his face warmed with the man's breath. The man shoved him against the wall with equal force and captured his mouth with his. 

Karrde's eyes widened. His client had misinterpreted his invitation to the back hall as an entirely different kind of rendezvous. 

And the man was a good kisser.

If it were not for their current situation, Karrde would lean into it. 

Karrde planted his hands on the man's shoulders and shoved him, holding him at arm's length. 

The middle-aged human male before him was oddly familiar: natural dark hair, warm brown eyes, a well-groomed mustache, beaming smile, athletic body, rich clothes -- he bore a striking resemblance to an entrepreneur Karrde had seen on reports.

"You're --" Karrde started, his tongue catching up with his brain. "You're Lando Calrissian." 

Lando smiled. "My reputation precedes me."

Karrde reeled as it hit him. "You're not Tamtel Skreej."

A righteous chuckle dressed Lando's features. He tapped two fingers against Karrde's chest. "I'm glad someone on this dirtball gets it."

Karrde stared in petrified silence. He was, in every stretch of his imagination, a dead man. The rendezvous had failed and he was about to be atomized into obscurity by a large Trandoshan woman. 

Lando Calrissian was a handsome man; there were worse arms to die in. It'd make a good story later.

"Skreej!" A Trandoshan's voice bellowed from somewhere near the bar and both men froze. 

"I'm right here, fang-face."

As if instinctively repelled from confrontational shout-outs, Karrde's hands unlatched from Lando's shoulders and flew to his blaster. He dropped into a crouch to further reduce potential targeting mass.

If Lando wanted a fight, he was welcome to make himself the largest target.

Except Lando's survival instincts mirrored his. They both crouched in the hall like guilty children. 

"Skreej, you traitorous kriff!" The Trandoshan bellowed again, a satisfied hunter. "I'm going to snap you in half and eat the girl."

Lando's eyes snapped to Karrde’s. They stared breathlessly as they reached a simultaneous conclusion and sprang back to their feet. The real Tamtel Skeej had arrived and immediately picked a fight with the brute. 

"Keys," Lando ordered. "I'll bring the speeder out front."

Lando Calrissian was a full Idiot's Array: he expected Karrde to surrender his only means of escape to the complete stranger that waded willingly into madness. Here was a man whose primary reputation was poor business decisions: including Darth Vader and Jabba the Hutt. Somehow, Lando Calrissian had survived the Crimson Dawn, the Black Sun, the Empire, and the Hutt Cartel.

It was impressive, honestly.

A meaty punch thumped from the cantina, followed by shuffled feet and shattered glass. 

Karrde considered his options. He could leave: walk out the back door and never come back. No one would know what he had done or how poorly the mission had failed. He could stay: own up waltz into the fray, blaster firing. Whether or not he hit anything, the end would be quick and succinct. He might put a notable dent in the Cartel’s Mos Espa presence in the process. Or he could trust Lando: entrust his speeder to the scoundrel and trust the coward had enough panache about him to stick around for those whose name he borrowed. 

Karrde measured the man staring back at him expectantly. If Lando was going to leave, he would have already done so. There was something else he wanted from this exchange; something he had invested in the outcome. Knowing what was so valuable to Lando Calrissian -- Baron Administrator of Cloud City, CEO of Bespin Mining Corporation, and two-time winner of the Songsteel Sylop -- was worth gambling a set of keys on.

Karrde’s jaw tightened as he slapped his speeder key into Lando's palm. He gripped the man’s hand, searching his face for a last-minute sabacc tell. Lando's salesman features were shockingly earnest.

Lando darted out the back door of the cantina, taking Talon Karrde’s escape route and reputation as a savvy gambler with him. Karrde took a deep breath and steeled himself. If he had been feeling more rational, he would have chased the man out the exit. Instead, Karrde checked his blaster, straightened his collar, and returned to the bar.

The fight wasn’t nearly as involved as he’d expected. Tamtel Skreej -- the real Tamtel Skreej; the one he was definitely not going to accidentally kiss -- was holding his own against a Trandoshan brawler twice his weight. Tamtel’s companion, Nima’tar, stood in front of the bar, blocking the bartender’s attempt to end the fight with a hefty carbine. More impressively, Lando’s sabacc companions clawed at other notable brutes around the cantina, clearing the floor for Tamtel and the Trandoshan’s private dance.

No one noticed Karrde standing amidst the chaos.

Karrde lifted his blaster to the ceiling and fired, then dropped the muzzle level with Tamtel and the Trandoshan. Tamtel’s eyes widened, fists raised to defend himself from the Trandoshan, her back to Karrde. A hush seized the room; glass tinkled beneath Karrde’s boot as he strode deeper into the room. “Tamtel Skreej --”

The Trandoshan reeled on Karrde, snapping rows of razor-sharp teeth. Her head snapped back and she roared, arms wide. 

Karrde expected an attack but that didn’t dampen the shiver her outrage pulsed through him. His back straightened, body pivoting to the left, shrinking his profile behind the silhouette of the blaster. 

“Stand down,” Karrde ordered abruptly. “Walk away and we will not have a problem.”

Her thick legs tensed and she lunged, claws aimed for his face.

Karrde fired twice, the angry heat of his blaster slapping her face at the speed of light. She dropped to the floor wordlessly.

The room remained silent, save for the sound of the Trandoshan’s spasming claws scraping against the stone floor. Tamtel lowered his fists. The Trandoshan’s fellow gamblers shrank behind cover. Nima’tar stopped hopping, the bartender having lowered his weapon. 

Karrde sighed heavily and leveled his blaster at Tamtel. “Please, I am out of time and patience. Tamtel? Nima’tar? Confirm.”

Tamtel’s eyes narrowed briefly before he nodded. Nima’tar moved to his side. Karrde turned to the bartender. 

“Right. Well,” he offered in explanation, his last wisp of patience drifting from the hole in the body before him. “I have business with these two. We’ll be leaving, now.”

The surrounding crowd offered no argument, his half-hearted explanation either lost in translation or completely uninteresting. Tamtel’s face betrayed a deep-felt sense of disappointment in the morally-ambiguous introduction. Karrde shrugged in waxing apathy and pointed out the door with his blaster. 

His client knelt, retrieving a bag from the floor, then stood and took Nima’tar’s pale green hand. She led him hurriedly out the front exit.

Karrde looked around the cantina. Glass, stoneware, and cards had been strewn across the hard-packed floor when tables were flipped for makeshift defenses. Blood and debris splattered the nearby bar. A large and spined body lay on the floor.

Before following, Karrde offered the bartender a sympathetic grimace and waved his hand to encompass the damage. “Add this to Lando Calrissian’s tab.”

* * *

Lando couldn't believe his luck. 

The Trandoshan had always been a sore loser but the timing was unreal. Of all the nights they'd been together, she picked the night the real Tamtel Skreej walked through the doors to call his bluff.

What were the odds of a handsome stranger appearing on the same night, at the same bar, looking for the same man? 

And the night was young.

Lando pulled the speeder around to the front of the cantina. He’d found it parked in an alley and had almost missed it. The speeder looked deceptively parental, as if its mud-caked curves would berth an entire school of offspring at regular intervals. It was absolutely painful to stare at, which made it the perfect getaway vehicle. 

The engine rumbled beneath Lando’s feet. He could feel its soft vibrations shimmy up his heels and through his legs as he waited. His fingers tapped on the steering column and he bit his lip. 

“Come on, come on,” he coaxed.

Relief flooded Lando as Tamtel and Mina emerged from the cantina and hesitantly approached the vehicle, confusion evident. Lando offered them a friendly smile as they climbed aboard.

Leia's mystery man followed shortly after and looked completely dismayed at the audacity of existence. He crossed in front of the speeder and paused at the driver’s side. He holstered his blaster and gave Lando an expectant look.

Quickly, Lando scooted across the bench to vacate the driver's seat for the speeder’s respective driver. The man’s fingers wrapped around the steering yoke and the engine thrummed to life, the speeder responding with exuberant force.

Between the alcohol and the warmth in his gut, Lando was thankful it was dark. Sweat crept across his skin and wicked into his clothes. There weren’t many things hotter than a Tatooine evening but a clean getaway from a bar fight had always been a favorite.

“Do you have a name, speedy,” he asked the driver.

"That's not free information,” the man responded simply.

“Sounds Mon Cal. Is that Mon Cal?” 

The man kept his eyes ahead of them. 

"Any word from Boussh?"

The man showed no hint of recognition. He wasn't one of Leia's agents, after all.

Lando wilted into his seat, puzzled by the incredible lack of details.

Not Leia’s. Not Jabba’s. Was he a bounty hunter, then? A rival gang member? Perhaps he was a friend of Han’s.

Lando looked him over. No, not one of Han’s friends, either: his hair was too good and he was a terrible conversationalist. 

He had to be a rival gang member.

"You like deals? I'll make you a deal: you give me your name and I'll stop asking questions for the rest of the drive."

The man lifted an eyebrow.

"Nima'tar," the woman commented from the back seat. "And Tamtel Skreej."

Lando checked over his shoulder. He had almost forgotten the duo was present. He pointed a finger at his mystery man. "How about him?"

The Twi'lek shook her head, her short green lekku bobbing across her plain brown top. "The deal was a name for silence. You got two."

The man laughed.

* * *

The drive was brisk and sobering, the night air the only refreshing thing about Tatooine. Streetlights served no purpose to a city without streets. Hovels and warehouses avoided attention in the dark.

They pulled up under the awning of a hanger to switch speeders, abandoning the tugboat for something more sleek and open.

After an hour of looping through Mos Espa, Karrde was convinced they were in the clear. They continued east, across open desert, until one city vanished on the horizon and another sprang up to take its place.

Mos Eisley was nowhere to retire to but it was home to an associate Karrde trusted. The Ithorian lived and worked on the outskirts of town, operating a droid repair shop. 

The Cartel knew their faces, Karrde explained as the Ithorian shuffled them into the shop. Their asset tags would be tracked by short-range scanners positioned throughout the city. The shopkeeper would handle the deactivation process as part of their arrangement. Until the buzz died down, they’d need to be patient and stay out of sight. When they were ready, the shopkeep could safely smuggle them off-world as part of one of his many salvage shipments. 

Tamtel pressed a code cylinder into Karrde's hand and Karrde politely declined it. "I'm afraid that won't do," he explained solemnly.

Tamtel tensed, waiting for the upscale.

"No tricks. Your credits will be more valuable to you once you get off-world. Your duffle, however."

The couple hesitated, their most valuable worldly possessions contained in the thick canvas sack slung across Tamtel's shoulder. Nima'tar nodded and Tamtel held the bag out at arm’s length, reluctant to part with it.

Karrde accepted the bag and shouldered it. "Congratulations on your newfound freedom."

Talon Karrde exited the shop relieved. The job was over and he was completely exhausted. His ship was nearby but an immediate departure would be subjected to immediate search and questioning. 

And then there was Lando Calrissian. 

"What in the name of spades was that?" Lando trailed behind him, gesturing toward the workshop.

Karrde set the duffle behind his seat and climbed into the speeder. He ignored his newfound personal commentator. Lando leaped presumptuiously into the speeder next to him. "You took their things."

Karrde gave him a flat, perturbed look.

"You had credits in hand and you took their things." Lando slapped his hand into his palm to emphasize the sharp turns of events. Karrde winced, the sound too loud, too early, too soon after a bar brawl.

Karrde gripped the steering yoke and turned the engine. "Get out."

"Mm-mm," Lando chided. "You owe me a ride back to Mos Espa."

"I owe you nothing."

"You also owe me a name."

If Zakarisz Ghent was an exercise in patience, Lando Calrissian was a step toward divinity. Karrde favored him with a sliver of curiosity. "What is that worth to you?"

Lando smiled, his stunning features oddly reminiscent of the Trandoshan's earlier strike. "A drink, if you're lucky."

Karrde barked a laugh. The pure cussed audacity of the gambler was astonishing. Despite himself, he grinned. "Theo."

Lando's bright eyes widened with his smile. "Theo?"

Karrde nodded. "Theobold Knave."

The response sated the man's curiosity, for the moment. He rolled the name across his tongue and tried it on for size. Karrde began to regret giving the gambler an alias but Lando Calrissian seemed like the type to name-drop at the most inopportune moments; there was absolutely no room in the schedule for an ill-advised call-back.

Lando's eyes narrowed and he leaned into the doorframe of the speeder. A piece of the puzzle clicked slowly into place behind his eyes. "Oh. I get it."

"Do you now?"

"That's cute." Lando waved a ringed finger at him. "You're cute."

Karrde's smile was genuine. "You owe me a drink."

* * *

Lando Calrissian was two shots in before he realized that Theo was not intending to drive him home. 

They pulled up under the drydock of a small and unassuming freighter designed for short hops. It had seen better days but looked serviceable; the kind of small, reliable investment one could stake their life on but would not mourn when lost.

The silence was tangible, broken by the hiss of pressurized air and sliding metal frames.

They barely made it through the boarding hatch before Theo unraveled, marking his territory with rapidly shed articles of clothing. His boots stayed at the main step, tucked against the frame. He set the duffle on the Dejarik table and chucked his jacket and belt across the back of a crate. Lando watched him disappear briefly and return with two glasses and a bottle of Corellian liquor.

“You, Lando Calrissian,” the man said as he filled both glasses, “are an absolute madman.”

Lando’s smile waned as he accepted his drink. “Bold words from a man that traded a high-profile reward for a bag of dirty laundry.”

“Credits come and go.” Karrde set his glass on the table and pulled the duffle open. “Dirty laundry is invaluable.” 

Lando snorted. “If you pull a beskar teddy out of that duffle, I will eat my cape.”

In the amount of time it took Talon Karrde to consider the street value of a beskar teddy, the potential challenges of construction, and the mental image of Lando Calrissian choking on his own cape, he emptied the duffle.

His clients had amassed quite an eclectic collection: four bound and well-loved texts with Huttese titles, a set of skiff-guard armor, a bundle of simple metal jewelry, a pair of soft hide boots, and absolutely no lingerie.

Lando picked up one of the books and whistled. “You never know when you’ll need a,” he squinted at the cover, “fifth edition copy of _Huttese Mating Habits_.”

Karrde weighed the value of such a tome. “Well.”

“No.”

“Once.”

“Wow,” Lando gaped, his glass hitting the table as he steadied himself.

Karrde furrowed his brow. “You’ve never received a Huttese love dart?”

“Theo.”

“The second one is the worst,” Karrde deadpanned. “Your skin burns, your mouth goes dry, your thighs ache…”

“Theo.” Lando swallowed and held up a hand to forestall details. “I hardly know you.”

“But you want to.”

The second kiss was far more intentional than the first. No accidental turns, background brawls, or mistaken connections. Karrde’s hands cupped Lando’s face as he pulled him close, his goatee brushing against the soft skin of Lando's chin. His mouth tasted like liquor, his skin like sweat mixed with the sweet silt of Mos Espa’s resilient flora.

Lando panted and fisted his palms in Karrde’s shirt while Karrde methodically relieved him of several complicated layers of silk. Karrde growled, his glacial patience withered under the challenge of aurodium cape clasps. 

“You know what else you need?”

“If you say beskar lingerie, I will shoot you.”

Lando kissed his neck and grabbed a handful of Karrde’s long dark hair, tugging gently. Karrde relented, tilting his head back as Lando traced his lips down his throat and collarbone. Karrde pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.

“Just to be clear: lingerie is out, Huttese love darts are in.” 

“I will gag you.”

“Gags now? Theo, I’m learning so much about you. Except. You know. Your name.”

Karrde shoved Lando against the table, a book dropping to the metal grating of the ship. He ran his hands across the plane of Lando’s chest and shoulders. Lando busied himself by unbuckling Karrde’s belt.

Karrde leaned into him, wrapped a hand behind his neck and pulled him in for another kiss. “When you wear that one out, I’ll give you a new one.”

“Promise?”

* * *

It didn’t take long for Talon Karrde to forget about his side adventure on Tatooine. 

For one, he spent several days of the Palak run vacuuming sand out of every nook and crevice in the _Ante Eater_. But mostly, he didn’t want to dwell on how easily he’d been robbed. Lando Calrissian had earned his charming reputation down to every detail and he’d almost started to like the man -- until he woke up with nothing but a hastily scribbled IOU note and a speeder-shaped divot in the sand.

He returned to base long enough to coordinate the next series of runs and never gave Tatooine a second thought.

After two weeks, he received a bill from an Ithorian droid repair company with a very short inventory list. 

Three weeks later, Tapper dropped beside him on the couch of the group’s communal rec room. He kicked his feet up on a cushion and crossed his arms behind his head. “Hey boss, you know how I’ve always wanted a sailbarge?”

Karrde ignored his associate’s complete disregard for personal space or common furniture etiquette and sipped his caf.

“You’re going to love this,” Tapper continued, slapping the cushion between them theatrically. “The Princess posed as a bounty hunter and infiltrated Jabba’s Palace. Jabba’s dead.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep. The Princess and a skiff guard. They were working with the Jedi and some drink droid. Took out Jabba -- on his own sailbarge!”

Karrde chuckled: Lando Calrissian was an absolute madman.


	2. Deleted Scene: The Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirty Laundry is a stand-alone one-shot fic.
> 
> The following "additional chapter" is a deleted/edited scene from the original draft.
> 
> In this scene, Karrde goes to the cantina to rescue Tamtel. The scuffle at the sabacc table spooks Karrde and he leaves. Lando pursues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirty Laundry is a stand-alone one-shot fic. The first draft of this fic was 8,400+ words, including a 700 word outline.
> 
> In trying to get moods and motivations to fit together, I wrote a lot of alternate scenes.
> 
> The following "additional chapter" is a deleted/edited scene from the original draft.
> 
> In this scene, Karrde had already been to the rendezvous and only Nima'tar showed up. Nima'tar was sent to the droid mechanic and Karrde went to the cantina as a last-ditch effort to find Tamtel.
> 
> The scuffle at the sabacc table spooked Karrde and he left. Lando pursued.

Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he stepped off the threshold of the cantina. The twin suns had set in Mos Espa and dark alleys sheltered hidden threats. Citizens knew better than to loiter in the pools of light. Beings moved in the darkness; stopping meant having to answer questions later.

Karrde followed suit and moved along the building’s exterior, his speeder the inevitable decision point. 

Gravel crunched behind him and Karrde held his breath.

“I can’t help but notice that you, sir, are far too handsome to be drinking alone.”

Skreej didn’t have cold feet, after all. Better yet: he was appropriately suspicious.

Karrde exhaled. “Simply waiting for the right man.”

Slowly, to prevent being shot, Karrde turned to address his client. He flashed him a smile in the darkness and paused: the bodyguard’s own smile was leveled with a blaster. “And who would that be?”

A normal being would find smiling at blaster point incredibly taxing, but Talon Karrde had the benefit of practice. He lifted his hands slightly, showing empty palms. “I’m told Mina’s friend is available.”

The expression that crossed the man’s face was a puzzling blend of bafflement and concern, but he holstered his blaster. “Mina’s working tonight,” he muttered through his teeth in the form of a question. "How 'bout Boushh?"

Karrde ran his tongue across his teeth and considered the question. The statement was a strange context switch from the previously flirtatious cant. Movement at the entrance truncated his strain of thought. “We should speak somewhere private. My ship’s not far.” 

The man shook his head, cautious. “I like to start with a nice steak and a bottle of wine --”

“Now.” Karrde did not wait for Skreej to finish his response. He turned and continued toward the speeder, the shadows in the doorway uncomfortably attentive. “Get in.” 


	3. Deleted Scene: The Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirty Laundry is a stand-alone one-shot fic. 
> 
> The following "additional chapter" is a deleted/edited scene from the original draft.
> 
> In this scene, Karrde waited at the bar for the rendezvous with Tamtel and Nima'tar. Lando couldn't help but notice a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirty Laundry is a stand-alone one-shot fic. The first draft of this fic was 8,400+ words, including a 700 word outline.
> 
> In trying to get moods and motivations to fit together, I wrote a lot of alternate scenes.
> 
> The following "additional chapter" is a deleted/edited scene from the original draft.
> 
> In this scene, Karrde waited at the bar for the rendezvous with Tamtel and Nima'tar. Lando couldn't help but notice a stranger.
> 
> Original draft Lando was very flirty.

Calrissian slides closer and closer to him, as patrons vacate their seats in the booth. The winning smile edges closer, one loss at a time.

“You, sir, are far too handsome to be drinking alone.”

Karrde lifts an eyebrow and crosses his arms. “Simply waiting for the right man.”

“Where are my manners.” Lando taps two fingers to his forehead in mock salute. “Lando Calrissian. Are you a betting man, mister uh--” 

Karrde’s eyes pin Lando in place, his capelet receding behind his shoulder in survival instincts. “Karrde.”

Those same survival instincts have not gotten Lando where he is today. 

“Karrde! What a name, Karrde.” Lando flashes his megawatt smile. “It’s been hours, Karrde. What kind of absolute fool would stand you up?”

The full bore of the man’s attention is on him, his eyes roving his face, his hands, his belt, his holster. It’s fine. Lando knows this dance. Catching the gentleman off guard gives him an opportunity to do the same.

Karrde runs his tongue across his teeth and considers Lando’s question. He pauses, his attention flashing over Lando’s shoulder before returning to Lando’s face. “You ask a lot of questions without offering anything in return.”

Lando smiles. “Are you a betting man, Karrde?”

Karrde inclines his head.

“Come play cards with me and my friends. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“The bet, Calrissian?”

Lando does not miss a beat. “I bet you’ll completely forget the poor bastard that blew it.”


	4. Deleted Scene: Hold Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirty Laundry is a stand-alone one-shot fic.
> 
> The following "additional chapter" is a deleted/edited scene from the original draft.
> 
> In this scene, Karrde has already rescued Nima'tar and gone back to the bar as a good-faith effort to rescue Tamtel. He picks up Lando instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirty Laundry is a stand-alone one-shot fic. The first draft of this fic was 8,400+ words, including a 700 word outline.
> 
> In trying to get moods and motivations to fit together, I wrote a lot of alternate scenes.
> 
> The following "additional chapter" is a deleted/edited scene from the original draft.
> 
> In this scene, Karrde has already rescued Nima'tar and gone back to the bar as a good-faith effort to rescue Tamtel. He picks up Lando instead.
> 
> Original draft Karrde was very brusque.
> 
> This is a very VQ (tm) scene.

Common sense and survival instinct would prevent a normal being from climbing into an unfamiliar vehicle with a complete stranger but years of experience had taught Lando Calrissian that any being that could flash a smile and banter at blasterpoint was worth hearing out. 

Between the alcohol and the warmth in his gut, he was thankful for the open air speeder. The wind combed across his skin and wicked the sweat from his clothes while he attempted to piece together what exactly he had just agreed to.

In retrospect, some of his favorite adventures involved following a handsome stranger into a questionable vehicle.

“Do you have a name, speedy?”

"You missed the rendezvous.”

“Sounds Hapan. Is that Hapan?” 

The man kept his eyes ahead of them.

"The rendezvous isn't until next week," Lando justified defensively.

"You don't have next week."

"Shassa," Lando cursed.

The drive to the shipyard was brisk and sobering, the night air the only refreshing thing about Tatooine. Streetlights served no purpose to a city without streets. Hovels and warehouses avoided attention in the dark.

They pulled up under the drydock of a small and unassuming freighter, designed for short hops. It had seen better days but looked serviceable. The kind of small, reliable investment one could stake their life on but would not mourn when lost.

The silence was tangible, broken by the hiss of pressurized air and sliding metal frames.

They barely made it through the boarding hatch before the man marked his territory with rapidly shed articles of clothing. Boots at the main step, jacket over the dejerack table. He disappeared briefly and reappeared with two glasses and a duffle.

"The Hutts are onto you," the stranger explained matter of factly.

"Me," Lando challenged. "What did I do?"

" _You missed the rendezvous_ ," the stranger emphasized, pulling his hair into a ponytail. "And the time for pleasantries."

"Slow down, now."

The stranger pulled a stun baton from the bag. "We'll need to do this the hard way. Take off your shirt."

The evening had swan dived into the deep end. Lando took a step back and pulled his blaster. "Full stop, Speedy. I will shoot you."


	5. Deleted Scene: Fringe Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirty Laundry is a stand-alone one-shot fic.
> 
> The following "additional chapter" is a deleted/edited scene from the original draft.
> 
> Let's be real: this was an 800 word excuse for me to bust out Karrde's dad-voice and cock-block Lando with business analysis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirty Laundry is a stand-alone one-shot fic. The first draft of this fic was 8,400+ words, including a 700 word outline.
> 
> In trying to get moods and motivations to fit together, I wrote a lot of alternate scenes.
> 
> The following "additional chapter" is a deleted/edited scene from the original draft.
> 
> At 800 words, this, dear @elsajeni was almost your fic. This was the first draft, my initial stab at a romance between the two, and, honestly, got lost somewhere when I tried to work backwards and figure out what they were on about. 
> 
> In this scene, Karrde picked up Lando at the bar. That's it. No rendezvous. No Tamtel or Mina. Just Lando hitting on Karrde amd Karrde dragging Lando somewhere private for a (ahem)... STERN TALK.
> 
> Let's be real: this was an 800 word excuse for me to bust out Karrde's dad-voice and cock-block Lando with business analysis.

The drive back to the shipyard is brisk and sobering, the night air the only refreshing thing about Tatooine. Streetlights serve no purpose in a city without streets. Hovels and warehouses avoid attention in the dark.

Karrde pulls up under the drydock of his ship, a small and unassuming freighter for short hops. It's seen better days but it's serviceable. The kind of small, reliable investment one stakes their life on but does not mourn when it is lost.

They're barely through the boarding hatch before Lando marks territory with rapidly shed articles of clothing. Shoes at the main step, a jacket over the dejerack table; he unbuttons his tunic and Karrde presses a glass into his hand.

Lando gives him a challenging look and downs the mysterious drink. The cool liquid goes down with sobering mundanity.

"Water?" Lando eyes Karrde accusingly. "When you said you had a proposal, I assumed you meant the naked-fun kind."

"Sit down."

Lando sits with a pout.

Karrde rakes his hair back from his face and fixes Lando with a patient stare. "What are you doing here?"

Lando scoffs. "I was planning on getting laid."

"Here." Karrde stabs the table with a finger. "In Mos Espa."

"Fringe hospitality at its finest!"

Karrde slams a fist on the table. "Landonis Balthizar Calrissian, if you think you can waltz into Jabba's Palace with a smile on your face and walk out whole, you are going to get us all killed."

Lando's mouth gapes. He frowns, then points at Karrde, then frowns again. He tilts his head for a different perspective; his mind scrambling to place the mystery guest. "Have we met?"

"How much do they know?"

Lando wags a finger at Karrde, a half-step behind the conversation. "Your name isn't Theo, is it."

"My name is not important,” Karrde hisses. “What's important is that you cannot strut about half-cocked, waving your credentials around like your cape."

Lando stands and stabs a finger in the other man’s chest. "Who are you?"

Karrde grabs Lando by the collar and pins him to the bulkhead. 

The proximity is tense. Karrde’s arm pressed against Lando’s chest, blocking his arms from flailing. He grabs Karrde’s forearms and braces himself anyway. Their faces are inches apart. The man is clearly disappointed in Lando’s life-choices which, in itself, is more flattering than intimidating.

Karrde chooses his words carefully and clearly enunciates each one, reminding Lando far too much of Leia’s even-toned rage. "You are going to get yourself absolutely vaporized."

Lando smiles, his eyebrow quirking upward in a challenge. "I didn't know you cared."

They kiss. 

Lando’s not sure who initiates it but one moment he’s thinking about it and the next it’s happening. Things work that way for him. The stranger’s mouth is warm and eager, with a hint of wine-notes too amber to be affluent and too gentle to be _Port in a Storm_. He's definitely not Cartel: no one on Mos Espa has that kind of palette.

Karrde breaks off, pushing away suddenly, as if struck with a thought. The lines around his ice-blue eyes crease with some form of struggling rationality. " _I'm_ going to get vaporized."

“Yeah, well.” Lando kisses him again, pushing against the bulkhead.

They fall against the table and into the booth, in a tangle. Lando unclasps his cape before he accidentally throttles himself, revealing a slash of open skin the man chases. 

Karrde pauses again, posting his fists on the bench at both sides of Lando’s head. "If I die, that flipshit Jabba will demolish _decades_ of outer-rim economic structure with _irredeemable_ trade rates."

Lando stares, agape. Of all the awkward romances he’s fallen into, being cock-blocked by actual statistics is a first.

Lando curls his fist below the man’s jaw and thumbs his chin down, tipping his head toward his own. "You had a proposal for me, Mr. Knave."

“Right.” Karrde sits up, stradling Lando’s lap, and exhales. “I propose you start using an alias and do some actual karking reconnaissance.”

“Fine,” Lando relents, propping himself up on his elbows. “But I’m picking the names; yours are terrible.”

“Ah, yes. ‘Tamtel Skreej’ is so easily recalled in a heated moment.”

“Please,” Lando balks. “‘Theobold Knave’ and ‘Ante Eater’ are the kind of atrocious sabacc-puns I’d expect from an old-hat card sling-- oh.”

The edges of Karrde’s face curl in amusement.

Lando taps a ringed finger against Karrde’s chest, a realization dawning in the back of his mind. “You’re that information broker.”

Karrde closes his hand around Lando’s wrist before Lando can tap him a third time. He leans forward, trapping the wrist against the bench above Lando’s head, and presses his lips against his jaw.

Lando snaps the fingers on his free hand. “Talon Karrde.”

Karrde hums in something like agreement and Lando can feel it in his throat, the soft vibration against his skin and travelling downward. Pieces to the puzzle are clicking into place without him. 

Lando laughs. “You want to take Jabba down. You’re making a play against the Hutts. You sly dog.”

Karrde exhales, his breath hot against his skin as his mustache tickles Lando’s stomach. “Please, shut up now.”

“You, sir, have terrible bedside manners.”

“Fringe hospitality at its finest.”


End file.
